


the rain will come (it always does)

by sunstrain (uhright)



Series: as the days fall to the wayside [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 22:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16585823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uhright/pseuds/sunstrain
Summary: A series of vignettes in which you overcome traumas and fall in love.





	the rain will come (it always does)

“I remember picking up the phone and dialing 911.” You take a deep breath that fills your lungs with the cold air of her office, yet does nothing to calm your nerves. Your therapist, upon seeing the shaking of your hands, offers a stress ball that you gladly take and knead between pinpricky fingers. Your whole body, under the stress of faulty wiring caused by this exact subject. “My dress was… covered… in blood because I didn’t have enough time to change after church.”

“What happened after that?”

For a moment, you ignore the question to align a box of tissues with the edge of her desk. “He started pounding on the door, and Mom told me to hide under the bed.”

“That must have been difficult.”

You blink away the tears blurring your vision, feel them trickling down your face. _Her empathetic cut-ins are only making you feel worse, so you ignore them._ “So I did. Because I'm a coward.”

“You were a child. There was nothing you could have—”

“I'm _still_ a fucking coward.”

“Okay. You're getting upset. Why don't we—”

“I don't wanna talk about this anymore. At all.”

She surveys your expression and, upon deciding that you're completely serious, nods her head. “Okay. If that's what you need. But if you ever change your mind, I'm here.”

* * *

As soon as you clock back into work, the newest edition to your police force falls into step beside you, asking about your day on his way to Hank's desk.

You keep it simple, discussing the cup of strawberry — always strawberry — yogurt you had for lunch. Then the overcast weather that gives you an excuse to cancel when colleagues invite you out. Especially to bars.

Small talk is all bullshit. Doubly so coming from an android.

“Do you actually like the rain or are you just programmed to agree with me?”

He pretends to ponder for a moment, which is admittedly entertaining, before answering. “Whichever you prefer.”

“I’d _prefer_ for you to leave me alone.”

He stops you with a hand on your arm, and you flinch at the chill of his touch. His eyes widen only for a moment before his face slips back into an impeccably painted mask. “I just wanted to say that I look forward to working with you.”

Silence. You lock eyes with him, searching them for any sort of emotion or authenticity.

_He has the same color eyes as—_

And you find none.

“Good for you. I don't care.”

* * *

Connor. You learn his name one morning at the coffee maker. Or rather, he forcibly and cheerfully introduces himself.

A call of your last name whips your head around. To Gavin, your temporary partner. “You’re blocking the fucking coffee supply. Move.”

_You're blocking the fucking TV!_

_The bruise from his fist was on your face for a week._

A fat rock nestles between your vocal cords, and you can't seem to bite back your usual egregious reply. Can't seem to do anything but freeze up in fear. The faulty wiring, again. That has to be the reason.

“What? I break you or something?”

You spin to face him, coffee spilling out of your cup and onto your brand new shoes. But you don’t care.

“Shut the fuck up, Reed.” Out of the corner of your eye, Connor stands stick-steady.

The perfect machine. Unwavering, like a mountain against a tsunami. Emotionless.

Exactly how you wish you could be.

And you'd be lying if you said you didn't hate him for it.

“I'm gonna do actual detective stuff. Catch you later.”

* * *

Your grandmother calls you one day during work. A mistake, all things considered.You have plenty of paperwork to do and no time to cry in the bathroom for two hours like last time.

“The date has been set, kiddo. And he wants to see you before then.”

How dare she. How could she. Ruin a futile attempt at a semi-normal life, with your desk job and shitty partner and loneliness that brings you to tears each night.

Only with one sentence.

“I'll be there for the execution. That's it.”

When you hang up the phone, your eyes lock with Connor's. He tilts his head, neither judgement nor pity on his face, and you heave a relieved sigh. Your surviving family has cast enough stones of guilt your way about not seeing your father before his death. You don't need your colleagues to deem you as evil either.

A few minutes later, the station loses power due to a suspicious surge in electrical activity that short-circuits even the backup generator. Captain Allen sends everyone out for a few hours, with promise that you'll respond to house calls until the power company fixes the problem.

Unfortunately, you and Gavin get stuck with a domestic dispute turned murder-suicide later in the night. You know exactly what you're walking into. Have experienced the aftermath many times, but something about this case has your palms sweating.

When you look at the face of the woman, beaten and battered, you see your mother.

Moments later, you run outside to vomit in a bush.

You hear Connor approach beneath guttural retching.

“This is why I don't like my grandmother calling.”

“Are you alright?”

“I'm fine. Yeah. Fine. I think.” Maybe if you say it enough, it'll spark itself into reality.

“I read your file. I can't say that I understand or that I empathize, but…”

You spit and wipe your mouth with a jacket sleeve. “Your honesty is refreshing.”

“What happened to you was a tragedy.”

 _Oh. This is… something._ “Thanks, Connor.” You stand and turn to regard him. “Ya know, for an android, you're alright. If things don’t work out with Hank, I'll gladly trade Gavin's dumb ass for you.”

* * *

You are the star of a tragedy and everyone else is simple set dressing. At least, that's what you've grown to believe over the years.

In a few months, the man who ruined your life will be dead, and your chest runs empty of sadness or guilt or anger. Because the playwright created this scene for character development. Or to kill off a villian. Maybe both.

Repeated thoughts of comedies and tragedies from freshman year drama class drift in and out of your head as your plate of breakfast sits untouched on the table.

“Listen, kiddo, this food is great if you just give it a shot.”

Hank never even liked you that much until recently. You could say the same, of course. His quick temper and burly stature reminds you of many people, none of them particularly positive influences on your life. That's why you successfully evaded him at every opportunity until now.

“Why did you invite me here?”

Hank turns around mid-chew to look at the android currently perusing a selection of music on an old jukebox across the room. “This was all his idea. Damn thing wouldn't shut up until I asked.”

A soft jazzy tune drifts through the diner, Connor appearing next to you a moment later. “Do you like the music?”

At his hopeful, wide-eyed look, you smile. “I do, actually. This is my favorite band.”

“I guessed correctly then. There was a small chance that I would be wrong, but I took it.”

“Why?”

“You had a difficult start to the day. I didn't want that cycle to perpetuate.”

You grin, and take the first bite of your now-cold eggs. “Well, it worked. Thank you, Connor.”

* * *

The inevitable happens. It builds like a hurricane inside your chest, fear and anxiety lifting tears from their recess. Molding into a huge storm that flattens buildings of security and comfort. Leaving behind a rising death toll that sends you fleeing to the bathroom.

You promised yourself you could handle working here. Promised yourself that you would weather the storms no matter what.

_Yet here you are._

Defeated by a little rain.

For two hours, you sob inside a stall, ignoring various pings from your phone and the knocks of irritated coworkers in need of a bathroom break.

You can’t face them. Not after this.

After the last time, you promised Captain Allen no more outbursts.

So many broken promises.

You accept his three day leave of paid vacation while you “get your shit together” and make yet another unreliable appointment with your therapist. But those never work. You’ve tried for over a decade. Countless professionals, diagnoses, drugs. Maybe it’s because you’re stubborn. But getting better is hard.

Staying this way proves even harder.

* * *

“You promise you'll try this time?”

“I promise.”

But you don't. Try. Because you never do.

_But why do you want to stay like this?_

You don't know. Comfort, maybe. The unknown is terrifying. What lurks outside the steel-built walls of the prison cell you created to hold all the dark memories and pain. Because your prison means safety.

You're crazy. You have to be. Nobody in their right mind would willingly subject themselves to torture by their own psyche.

When you get back to work, a bouquet of flowers rests atop your desk, and coworkers filled your email with get well wishes.

Gavin continues a joke from last time that involves you running to the bathroom after a mild inconvenience.

Difficult paperwork has you rushing to the coffee maker to stay awake.

You hear his voice directly behind you. “The detective is gonna cry in the bathroom again.”

In your mind, the precinct snickers.

_The detective is gonna cry in the bathroom again._

Surprise rears its head when a familiar voice stops you from lashing out.

“Are you that insecure, Detective? Does bullying your partner make you feel better?”

Nobody has ever stood up for you, except for yourself. To have this android, this kind being shoulder the burden has you in tears.

“Why don't you stay the fuck outta this, tin can?”

“I only take orders from Lieutenant Anderson.”

Just in the knick of time, Hank himself shoulders between the two men, all curse words and disappointments.

“In case either of you have forgotten, we have jobs to do.” He nods over at you. “A call came in about shots being fired from an apartment building fifteen minutes from here.”

Before he finishes his sentence, you’re grabbing your jacket and keys from your desk. “I got it.”

“You need backup, you _call_ , alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

* * *

You sorely underestimated how much you missed the adrenaline of being out on the field. Your badge offers you purpose, like a gift-wrapped doorstep present on a Monday.

Except when it almost gets you killed.

By the time Hank and company arrives, a puddle of blood already surrounds your torso. You don’t feel pain, only the pressure of cold hands on your wound and a racing, headache-inducing pulse in your ears.

You had saved two children, but at what cost? Your own life?

 _Yes._ And you would do it again and again and—

“Detective?” Connor. His voice doesn’t sound as rigid now. More… emotional. “You need to hang on. There are so many things I haven’t even asked you yet.”

_Really, Connor? While you’re bleeding out?_

But still, you can’t deny him.

“Like what?” you groan, unable to stifle a bloody cough.

“Why did you join DPD after what they did for your father?”

You look up at him then, his brown eyes wide. LED as red as burning coals. And you realize that you could see yourself becoming friends with him. Maybe you already are.

“I don’t want any child to go through what I went through.”

The smile he offers you, less mimicky and more genuine, causes your heart to swell. “You’re a strong person. You know that, right?”

With a smile, an actually happy smile for the first time in forever, you answer, “I do.”

* * *

Connor visits you in the hospital every day while you heal. He dry cleans your coffee stained shoes (the ones even _you_ had forgotten about) and sneaks you fast food despite the doctor’s orders.

“Your father’s execution is coming up. He’s been calling the precinct.”

You pause channel surfing to look over at him. “Why?”

“He wants to talk to you.”

“No. I can’t.”

“I know you didn’t ask for my opinion, but I think it would provide the closure you’ve been searching for.”

No. You didn’t ask for his opinion, but you’d be lying if you said that it wasn’t valuable. After all, he’s the most intelligent species ever created. You’ve grown grateful of his input.

“Fine. Maybe. But I’m not promising anything.”

* * *

Your last visit with your therapist is… hopeful.

“So, you really went to see your father?”

You align the box of tissues with the edge of her desk. “Yeah. We talked about a lot of things. He seemed actually sorry for what he did. I told him I loved him.”

“I’m very proud of you.”

“I also made a friend at the precinct. His name is Connor.”

“Oh?” She leans forward and rests both elbows on her knees. “Tell me about him.”

You clear your throat and situate yourself in the leather chair that squeaks with each fidget. “He’s an android, but he’s kind and thoughtful. He treats me better than any human has.”

A knowing look appears on her face, smirk accentuating her smile lines. “Just friends?”

You look past her, out the window. At the bustling people and moving cars and street lights and feel as if you’ve finally caught up with the rest of the world.

Connor was right. You needed closure.

“I’m too afraid to ask him out on a date. But being his friend is enough. I think.”


End file.
